History Won't Repeat This
by MakoMori
Summary: Instead of a dissolved nation simply losing his status as an immortal, he also loses any memories he has from being a nation. America falls for the human who was once Russia, who has no recollection of his previous lifetime or ever having met America.
1. Part 1

_This is a different take on __this fic__. Instead of a dissolved nation simply losing his status as an immortal and an icon/embodiment, he also loses any memories he has from being a nation. This fic takes on a different path - this time from America's perspective - as he falls for the human who was once Russia, who has no recollection of his previous lifetime or ever having met America. Warnings for gore and violence, because I do so love writing crazy!America; also sexual scenes. Slight hints of FRussia. Also lots of France, brief appearance by England, and some FrUk hints. _

-:- -:- -:-

It was at the dawn of the new millennium when America discovered how much the latter part of the twentieth century had changed him. At first - and you couldn't blame him even as he tore off his glasses and washed his face with lukewarm water - he thought he'd had one too many to drink, because in the fields of barley that was America's hair, a plague was spreading.

And that plague began with a single grey hair.

-:- -:- -:-

_Deuteranopia__: Color-blindness resulting from insensitivity to green light, causing confusion of greens,__reds__, and yellows._

-:- -:- -:-

Visions danced over Ivan's eyes. Black ones, white ones, snow, then darkness - shadows. Lights flickered somewhere in the distance, then a pair of eyes. Blue ones, bright as a sky Ivan hadn't seen since winter arrived in Moscow. Then beyond the skies came the sun, or was it wheat fields? Maybe sunflower petals, but too narrow to be.

Something bright slipped into vision: several tiny suns spotted across his vision like stars in daylight. Yet none of the suns brought him warmth. He was cold, so much so that it was a wonder why he could still move while feeling more akin to a block of ice. The wind howled in the distance, bit at his ears and slipped their secrets in.

He silently wondered how much time passed while clocks ticked in the distant parts of his mind. Maybe his heartbeat, he hoped.

The sunspots dissipated and made way for flares on glass windows, blue skies of worry watching him, wheat fields of golden blonde hair framing a face; blue eyes like skies ready to storm and rain thunderstorms down on the snowy fields of Ivan's face. Eyelashes fluttered, purple eyes perviously hidden behind white eyelids fixed on the face looming over him as if he could see through it. "Alfred?"

"Non, mon chou,"

Life sprang so suddenly back into Ivan's eyes that it seemed as if the other's words were a defibrillator that shocked his heart back into life. His hands shot up, catching the bends of the other's jaw and holding him there. Ivan almost wanted to keep his eyes closed where blackness reigned, where there was no snow, no whiteness, (white. Hospitals are white-) and too dark for redness to bleed into his irises. "Francis..." he murmured, eyes fixing on the man's face.

The Parisian responded with a smile, stroking his thumb along the Russian's jaw. "Oui. Were you dreaming?"

"Nightmare."

-:- -:- -:-

It took Francis only two years to find Ivan. Even if he held Paris above all cities of the world, there was something he cherished about Moscow as he painted his fingernails over the wrought iron fences. It was the city he could never conquer - never have, never own - a city more red at sundown than the blazes he remembered rupturing the city centuries earlier. His fingertips, warmed from the knit gloves he removed seconds before, melted the snow caught on his fingerprints and brought the remaining flakes to his lips to dissolve them on his tongue. He loved this city, and somewhere deep down, he still craved it, desired it, and took it upon himself to protect it.

He knew that without Ivan - without Russia - the mighty city would fall prey to greedy hands, crumble, fly the wrong flags over Red Square like a victory when the people of Moscow wore faces more scornful than the weather blowing in from the east.

The nation curled his hands around the iron bars of the fence like a prison, gazing out into the streets where the snow had layered over the tracks left by tires. The wind erased footprints left by the Muscovite people, as if left by ghosts long gone like the shadows left at Chernobyl. As his eyes focused past the blur behind his makeshift prison, his eyes fixated on a rather familiar-looking fabric in the wind. Like a beacon, pale in color, but a bruise to the impossible whiteness of the city, Francis found himself acting without thought (a talent of his), and seized the tail end of the man's scarf. When the figure turned, Francis was met with a pair of eyes he knew were rarer than a heatwave in Russian winter-

-wide and afraid. _Even now, even though his beloved country is no more and has forgotten and forsaken him, he still embodies the emotions of his people._Fear. Wariness, as if the very wind would tear through their skin like bullets and spill their blood into the snow.

Even now, he would flinch as if Francis's fingers had intended harm, had intended any emotion but comfort. Ivan was a fully-grown child of trauma, scarred by wars and violence he could again never remember or fathom, but relived in them nightmares plagued with blue eyes, blond hair, and bombs that could disintegrate whole cities in minutes.

And even after decades of reckless abandon by his own memories, Francis found that even he was too afraid to touch him for fear that he would turn to dust, and then his cities would follow suit.

He was fragile, and for that reason Francis had to keep him a secret.

-:- -:- -:-

But it was a secret with a lifespan shorter than the blink of an eye. And Francis had to keep his shut through every crash, thump, and splinter the summer after America plucked his first grey hair and drowned it in the tides of his sink drain.

"How could you keep this from me? How could you not tell me that you knew where he was?" America emptied his mantle of the bamboo Japan brought for him, its precious blue-painted white porcelain shattering by France's feet. He stepped back, careful to avoid cutting up his feet. For he, too, was fragile.

"I thought it would be best," France replied evenly. "For both of you."

"Bullshit!" America barked, a wrathful finger now directed between France's eyes. France lowered his gaze to the folded glasses in his hands. He had the decency to remove them from America's visage before the nation began throwing things. He had not seen America this angry since he'd asked for France's help during the Revolutionary War.

Silence crept over the pair, curtains rolling in the high winds of an apartment fifteen stories up. Paperwork retreated to the kitchen, ushered by the breezes, and France finally deemed it safe enough to remove the distance between he and America. Gently, the older nation adorned America with his glasses once more, catching the dying embers of fury behind the lenses that haunted Ivan's dreams.

"How many times have you slept with him?"

The older nation wet his lips nervously, and the corner of America's mouth twitched into a knowing smile. "You can't keep him. He's not yours to keep. He's mine. I won him, fair and square. I spent over four decades fighting him and I won. He is not yours to claim."

"If you could only 'ear yourself talk, Amerique! You treat 'im like a trophy, but if you could only see 'ow 'e is right now-"

"I've been trying to see him! And it's dicks like you that are keeping me from doing that!"

France let his shoulders go slack, eyes fixating on the curtains washing shadows on the floorboards like waves in the breeze. "At least thirty." He worried away on the side of his cheek.

"What?"

"If I 'ad to guess, I would say I slept with 'im about thirty times-"

As if it were in spite of whatever sensations of acute pleasure the memories brought France, America's fist wrought them with falsities of pain. France was not aware of being hit until after his hands were running over the course texture of his jawline; the pain only _hit_ him when he had opened his mouth in a gesture of slight disbelief. "_Amerique-_"

The embers of rage in America's eyes had erupted into a forest fire, and France swore to have caught green flames burning somewhere in the blue irises filling with the black smoke of his pupils. Before America could land a second punch, France caught it in his palm, closed his fingers around it, and used America's wasted momentum to back the younger nation against the adjacent wall.

"Ah, but it is funny, because he had almost the same reaction as you before joining me in bed." America grit his teeth, struggled, but with little use against the tight grip France kept on his wrists. "Is that 'ow you intend to threat 'im when you meet, Amerique? If you ask me-" America _didn't,_thank you "-I think 'e is lucky to be rid of those 'orrible memories. 'e was given the ability to move on, and you still 'ave not. So tell me, what do you plan to do when you see 'im again?"

A sinister grin passed over America's lips. "Fuck his brains out until there's nothing left for him to remember about me."

With a small growl, France tightened his grip until he could feel the palpitation beneath them, then released America's binds, raising his hands and lowering his eyes in surrender.

America threw his arms up in defeat, turning to the east-facing open window and watching the single row of his nation's flag dance tangos in the wind from the adjacent building. "I can't see it anymore. There was a time when I would look out that window, look at those flags - my flags - and know that everything will be better... but I can't see it anymore- red. It's strange... everything looks like... like I'm seeing the world through photos of old Civil War Generals. It's like how everyone now views the past. I can remember Mr. Lincoln's speeches perfectly, but everyone now seems to think that the world back then was just sepia; that color is this new invention that came out with colored TV..."

A pang of pity left a pinch in France's stomach. "'ow long?"

"It was sometime a few months ago," America admitted bitterly. "And now-" he laughed resentfully "-and now I'm finding grey hairs. I can't be getting old already-"

"It is a sign of maturity, mon ami. It means that you are getting wiser."

"My ass," America's voice drowned away in the waters of the fabric of his sleeves as he sank to the floor and buried his face into them. "I've been mature since, like, forever ago. This just isn't fucking _fair-!_"

"C'est la vie."

America raised his eyes enough to let them burn holes into the bottoms of France's dark denim jeans. He felt pressure in his hair as France stroked his fingers through them, though whether for comfort or apology, America did not have the patience to decipher because he did not want or deserve either. He caught the last few footsteps of France's shoes clicking across the wood floor no matter how silent he tried to keep his walking. "Tell me where he is."

France froze, hand tightening around the doorknob. "The Serbsky Psychiatric Center."


	2. Part 2

_Once again, warnings for violence and gore, and sexual content. Hints of FRussia and FrUk._

-:- -:- -:-

He'd gotten clearance, though from what source he could scarcely remember at the moment. He supposed the government would allow clearance easily now, seeing as it was no longer diplomatic (America just assumed that some other freakishly-tall guy with silver hair and white-as-fuck skin had taken Russsia-_Ivan's_ place) and he'd made up some bullshit excuse about this prisoner being a distant relative, a cousin, and since neither of their birth records officially existed (what was _birth _anyway?) they were easily manipulable.

Who was going to say _'nyet'_ to someone backed by the United States government?

They - _he. Alfred. America -_ had won the war, and now Moscow was the shying away from a sun that America bathed - basked - in, because he had saved the world from the communist menace.

Even now the snow caking his boots still melted against the tiles of the world forgotten by the sun. The Psychiatric Center was almost as cold as the temperature outside, so America only did the politeness of unbuttoning the first button on his coat. He could remember Ivan's home in St. Petersburg still, hot as he imagined hell itself to be, and America wore t-shirts beneath his two jackets to keep himself comfortable in one of the two extremes. This was the opposite of Russia's home, and he wondered how the two men escorting him could be wearing nothing beyond their paper thin lab coat.

He had lost count of the number of passcodes and gates they'd passed through, but he knew that they were in the right place once prison bars turned into heavy, white-painted doors with rectangular windows the length of America's hand span and width of his thumb. Occasionally he caught pairs of eyes peering through them, but were gone soon as their gazes locked, as if such an act were taboo inside the institution.

Along the hallway, when the number of doors had reduced to one every thirty strides, he caught sight of the only door awaiting at the very end of it, alone and almost forgotten, or even looked over at the men who worked there. Twenty-five paces from the door, the men stopped. Without a word, they passed America the access card needed to enter and turned back the way they came with what America could have easily mistaken for pity, or even fear.

_He was dangerous. But who knew that better than America did?_

But even America caught his footsteps down the hallway going at a slower pace. It wasn't from fear, he reminded himself, but because he wanted this moment to drawl out

(_like the moans he knew would be coming down his hallway-)_

But perhaps long as America took to reach the door, nothing seemed longer than the moment between the inserting of the card and the tiny green light that allowed his access. He imagined that his hand hesitated on the door knob about as long as France's did before he left, but perhaps this moment of truth would be a little less climatic than the words that had left France's mouth.

Because when America had opened the door, he had seen nothing but an empty room.

-:- -:- -:-

"What do you mean they're putting the poor boy in a psychiatric ward?"

"You mustn't blame them."

"Maybe 'e 'as a few 'loose screws', but that is no proper judgement for that kind of- of execution!"

"Oh, listen to yourself, you old sod. You are making a big deal out of nothing."

France settled back in his chair, frowning the instant he was met face-to-face with the front page of London's very own _The Telegraph_. France's fingers nervously carded through the hair free from the hold of his ponytail and skimmed over the first line of the main article. He knew what rotten moods England got in when his team lost a shot at the title in the World Cup, but France observed the difference in their moods even though he, too, had lost his chance. More importantly, there were more pressing matters at hand- and England was the only ear who would (albiet, unwittingly) listen. He nervously counted the tempo of England's foot as it the heel tapped against the leg of his chair.

"It is not nothing," France muttered solemnly, and that single note of sadness in his voice is what caught England's attention. England knew of the perpetuating difficulties of his relationship with Russia, and how it could never amount to whatever odd, protectionist stance France took upon himself with the nation. England likened it to his relationship with America when he felt particularly empathetic, but today was not one of those days, and not one tear on France's chiny-chin-chin could change that.

"Well, then to put it simply, it is not the end of the world." England replied evenly as he licked his fingertip and flipped to the next page of his paper. He had stopped actually reading half an hour ago, but simply decided to keep up the facade.

"It is for '_im-_"

"-And I suppose the thousands who die every minute mean nothing to you in comparison-?"

"-_'is people-"_

"-are none of your bloody concern. It is between Russ- _Ivan -_ and his government. If they decide that he's best in a mental hospital, than so be it." England's fingers tightened around the edges of the newspaper until the center of it collapsed and France was graced with his austere portraiture once again. "Frankly, I believe that they should have put him there a long time ago."

England reached for the paper cup on the table between them, a slight twitch on his lips as the tea burned him, but too refined in his last statement to allow his posture to crumble like a house of cards, he endured it. Putting the teacup back, England caught the sadness swimming in his companion's eyes. Sighing, he folded up his newspaper, perfectly placed it on the coffee table between them, and stood. He paced around the table, and carefully took the Parisian's face into his hands.

"France- _Francis,_" he corrected, knowing full-well how to get his companion to properly listen. And he did. France looked up, eyes locked on the intense jade of _Arthur's_. His voice was hushed, almost comforting (if one, like France, could distinguish between England's eleven tonal shades of 'irritated'), "You can't have a nation wandering alone in the streets after that amount of trauma... sure, his memory might never return, but how could you be sure of that? What if the memories do come back? Would you want that kind of anger and betrayal and hurt on the streets of London? or Paris?"

-:- -:- -:-

Before America could get a proper scan of the tiny room that fit perfectly into his peripheral vision - a bed, sheets sewed to the mattress to keep him from strangling himself (could Ivan still not die?), night table nailed to the floor with a copy of Dostoyevsky's _Brothers Karamazov _haphazardly half on it, and a large window with boards nailed across it to allow only enough light from the snowy landscape to assure the room kept its white ambiance - he was welcomed by a galaxy of stars dancing before his eyes, then had his face pressed against the unnaturally clean white tile of the floor (he expected padded flooring). Groaning, he got to his feet to find a shadow still standing in the corner, half-blocked by the opened door, wielding a metal tray stained with the remains of last night's supper.

As the heavy door succumbed to the door frame, more and more of the shadow emerged from the corner. America righted himself, stars still twinkling in the corners of his eyes, and looked the figure up and down when his eyes began adjusting to the light again. The figure was tall, his head towering a few feel shy of the ceiling; his too-loose clothing, practically clinging to his protruding hip bones like a climber on a cliff-face, white as the room around them; and he wore an expression of what America imagined to be the picture for the wikipedia definition of 'terror'. As America rose to his feet again, he took note of how the man had raised the metal tray at the same pace so it was always a few inches above the height of America's head, ready to strike again should he intend any harm.

America could tell from the look of shock behind the whites of the man's eyes that he had expected America to die from that blow. And the man- he _was _Russia, the past tense used quite literally, because Ivan- the placeholder- only looked like him in the slightest of senses. His hair was long, drifting well beyond his earlobes, unkempt and flyaway as a mockery of the Russia who obsessed over his appearance. And his eyes, still containing every ounce of the loneliness America remembered - but a loneliness Ivan could not comprehend feeling (what did he miss exactly?) - and in a shade of grey that America knew was as unique to his new eyes that lavender was when he could see the color. He could remember it: the blue freckles sprouting from the edges of his irises and the red flares near his pupils. It was that shade of red that made America shiver, and more than anything now, more than he wanted to see the red stripes of his flag outside his apartment, he wanted to see that red.

(And distantly he wondered what blood drawn from another looked like when looked on by eyes with deuteranopia).

"Russia-" the American spoke with an air of incredulity, swallowing his breath in large gulps. The addressed figure said little to combat a name he did not understand, but America could see Ivan's tongue working along the bottom of his lip in unease.

"Hey," all at once the American's thin mouth bloomed into a smile as awry as his the glasses still unsteadily perched on the edge of his nose. "Long time no see."

Ivan fixed his eyebrows together, knitting his face into an expression of confusion as if he'd never experienced any emotion but fear- and that was still very much present in his eyes. He shook his head as if it were a yes or no question. America frowned.

"Don't give me that shit. Stop with the charade," Ivan reacted to America closing the distance between them by raising the metal tray another inch higher. As the expanse between them narrowed to a distance measurable on a ruler, Ivan had no choice but to swing-

_And he was dangerous- _but America was more dangerous. With an expert precision, America ducked beneath the tray just with enough time to feel the object come in contact with his cowlick, then charged forward to slam his elbow into the Russian's stomach and the Russian into the corner again. His ear canals sang with sounds of both the metal clang of the tray hitting the floor and Ivan's untimely unwarranted scream.

America brought his mouth close enough to Ivan's ear to feel the cool skin brush under his lips as he spoke. "Come on, Russki. I know you better than that. You've gotten soft." There was a hitch in his breath; Ivan was shaking worse than a bare man in a snowstorm. "You hesitated."

Still no response. America's temper flared deep in his stomach and he pressed his elbow hard enough against Ivan's throat to elicit another cry. "Stop playing dumb! I know you can understand me! I know you speak English!" He shouted, digging his heel into the tile floor for leverage as he applied more pressure.

"St-stop, please-!"

"Fuckin' knew it."

A victorious, brief smile snaked onto America's lips before he pulled back, after giving a press for good measure (Ivan choked), to release the Russian. Breath rushing back into his lungs like a tidal wave, Ivan collapsed onto the floor with his hand massaging his throat. "Who are you?" He coughed out.

"What kind of question is that? You know exactly who I am."

"The nightmare." His voice went up in pitch as he pinched his vocal chords to test them.

"Excuse me?" America raised an eyebrow.

"You are in my nightmares," Ivan muttered. America carded a hand through his hair; suddenly Ivan's unprompted attack on him made sense (though he still distantly wondered if Ivan planned on attacking the first person who came into his cell, and Alfred became an unfortunate victim of his meal tray.) He caught Ivan's movement in the corner of his eyes when the Russian retrieved his tray and crossed the room to place it atop Dostoevsky. His tongue moved along the roof of his mouth in memory of the meal once on it; licking his finger, Ivan pressed the moistened tip against a crumb, bringing it to his lips and hiding it under his tongue.

Alfred caught his own tongue wetting his lips at the sight of it. "What nightmares?"

Ivan's mouth twitched into a ghost or a memory of smile, as if he weren't aware of his own expression. "Bombs," he says simply, the suddenness of such a powerful word leaving his mouth like a bullet and embedding into America's stomach. "I see Moscow, only it is not Moscow; the city is gone, turned to rubble. All I see and feel is a pain so great that I cannot fathom what it is like... to feel it, and then- I see you. You are standing opposite of me, and- and... _laughing." _

America flinched, the nightmare a picturesque fantasy flashing in all color behind his eyelids. There was once a time when he would consider this to be a _dream_-

(A daydream, watching the red blood spill from the older nation's open wounds, knowing that the pool settling around Russia would be the only expanse of his dirty, _red_ communist ideals after America was through with him.)

-_I won, I won, IwonIwonIwon_. Ivan's voice was quiet as he tore himself away from visions of his reoccurring nightmares, "Do you have anything to eat?"

America met his eyes with a look like Ivan had just personally insulted him. His fingers fished blindly through the pockets of his bomber jacket, eyes still locked on Ivan in distrust. He thought it was a trick. "Just a stick of gum," he plucked the tinfoil-wrapped package and presented to the Russian. Ivan's eyes lit up with a light brighter than the lighting of the cell was dull. Without question, the American tossed the candy onto Ivan's bed pillow where he made instant work of removing the wrapper and shoving into his mouth.

"Dude, what is your problem? You act like you haven't eaten anything in days." Which clearly Ivan had eaten recently, because he had a bump forming on the back of his head to prove it.

Ivan looked up, meeting America's eyes ashamedly. "I get fed very sparingly. They put me here, in this cell at the end of the row so it is easy to forget about me. They think I am crazy, and the doctors here say I suffer from disillusions, and that I think I am someone different than who I am. How can that be based off of just 'think'? They 'think' I am crazy, 'think' I am dangerous, yet they _know_ that I must be forgotten and left to die here. Alone."

For the first time since seeing Ivan, Alfred felt pity crawling up the back of his throat, and as Ivan chewed thoughtfully on the peppermint gum, he noticed that hint of emotion on America's face. A sad smile formed between his chewing and he enjoyed the taste of the minty juices flowing down the back of his throat. "I do not want your pity, Alfred."

"How do you know my name?"

"It is strange, I think, but maybe I knew you in another lifetime. Sometimes my nightmares assign names, and I think I decided to call you Alfred. I am right, da? You reacted to it, so I must be." The silence of incredulity that America occupied was filled with the sounds of Ivan's incessant chewing and he instantly regretted giving the Russian that gum.

"_Da_," America said, simply, mockingly, like a joke shared between the two of them. Ivan grinned from ear to ear. He was enjoying this game.

"I have not had such interesting conversations with someone since Francis used to visit."

America caught the hesitation before the word 'visit' and knew exactly what that implied. "How many times have you two fucked?" The response was so offhanded that Ivan ceased chewing in order to frown.

"He told me about you, Alfred. He said you intended to harm me when you came here-" America noted the 'when' where there should have been an 'if' "-so you must not blame me for hitting you when you came in. It was out of self-defense."

The nation scoffed at this. "Ignore him, I didn't come here for that." Ignoring the fact that he had probably left a bruise across Ivan's throat.

"Then why did you come here Alfred?"

_To fuck your brains out until there's nothing left for you to remember about me._

"I had to see you for myself." He replied smoothly. Awesome, the Russian wouldn't suspect a thing.

Ivan's lips spread into a grin until every tooth was exposed. "You are lying."

(_Alone and forgotten at the end of the hallway, Ivan's moans would not be heard.)_

America returned the shark-like smile twofold, more venom put into it. "So what if I am lying?"

"I want to know how badly you want me," Ivan purred, "Because I want you."

-:- -:- -:-

"How does it feel, Russia?"

The other nation groans in response, too many sensations at once rushing through his body. His head is spinning, America's voice a distant buzzing in his ears through too many sounds overwhelming him at once. America runs his tongue along his bottom lip to mop up what remained of their deed.

"Do you like it, Russia? Does it feel good?" The gold-blond nation lets out a breathy laugh, noting how Russia's arms shake from weakness, from being spent. "Because I'm _really_ fucking enjoying this." And the sound of that voice- Russia struggles to keep himself from collapsing, thrashing, moaning-

_- from pain -_

-and America laughs. "You lost, Russia. There's no point in fighting it. Give up, or I will force you to."

The other nation coughs, feeling wetness spill over his bottom lip; he tastes the copper of blood as his tongue mops up his chin with the back of his hand. A bead of crimson drips from his slightly agape mouth and lands in the snow around him, hardly recognizable from what he's already lost from the gunshot.

"Tell me I won." America demands.

"Fuck you," Russia bites out wetly.

"It _has _been a while, hasn't it?" America coos, closing the distance between them with a slow pace in his step. Ashes and snow swirl beneath his feet. The ends of Russia's scarf snatch at it, and Russia looks up, the red freckles in his eyes retreated in the lavender to give into the somber blues of exhaustion. He is tired, his body hurts in places he had never been aware of until now, and America's foot clamps down on the hand resting in the snow.

"Tell me I won, Russia," America coos while he leans down to retrieve the hand caught beneath his boot.

"No." Russia spits out, raindrops of blood landing on America's boots. Without much thought to his consequences, he barely registers America bending his finger back until he hears the bones _crack_. The Moscow winds carry away Russia's scream.

"Tell me."

"_Nyet_."

_Crack- _"A-argh!"

"Tell me!"

"N-nooo..."

"This is hurting me more than it's hurting you, sweetheart."

But by the time France finds Russia lying in the snow, his skin is covered with frost, his eyelashes frozen together, and his breathing only apparent from the clouds rising from between his partially parted lips. His fingers hurt and he's too weak, but he still finds the strength enough to grasp onto France's sleeves as the Parisian carries him away.

-:- -:- -:-

At the very least America had hoped that Ivan would remember _something_while he twisted and writhed beneath him. Relying on something that wasn't America's faulty eyes brought a familiarity unspeakable and unseeing, only experienced though touch. Ivan was comfortable enough, his knuckles turning white as the fucking color scheme of the room when they grasped the bed frame - tensing when America moved, relaxing when he slowed.

But America thought that maybe the victory more delicious than seeing Russia collapse before him all those years ago was the knowing that he didn't have to _fight_Ivan to get him to suck him off.

And Ivan still the same goddamn temper as Russia did- (but did America really expect that much of a personality change?) -and ordered the American out of the room.

"You have overstayed your welcome, I think," the Russian observed.

"Yeah, sure, whatever. I've tried hard enough; no point in trying to bring back what can't be brought back." America had no choice but to oblige, he told himself, as he walked down the hallway, chewing the gum once in Ivan's mouth, and knowing that he had something Ivan didn't- the ability to leave.

But Ivan knew that Alfred would never escape being _trapped._

And he laughed, he laughed loudly, because alone and abandoned at the end of the hallway, no one would come. No one would listen. No one would tell him to quiet down as he twirled America's tiny little grey hair between his fingers.

"Of course, America, because memories never come back, do they? But they can't come back... if they never left in the first place."


End file.
